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atifc  Cfjtrtp 


5?racfeett 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


JOCELYN :  A  PLAY 


JOCELYN 

A  Play  and  Thirty  Verses 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE   GORHAM    PRESS 


Copyright,  1915,  by  Charles  William  Brackett 


All  Rights  Reserved 


For  permission  to  use  poems  in  this  volume  ac 
knowledgments  are  due  to  the  National  Magazine, 
Boston,  Massachusetts,  and  to  The  Williams  Liter 
ary  Monthly  and  the  New  Coffee  Club,  of  Wil- 
I'mmstown,  Massachusetts. 


THE  GORHAM  PRESS,  BOSTON,  U.  S.  A. 


PS 


37/ZJ 


CONTENTS 

Jocelyn,  A  Play    7 

The  New  Muse 49 

A  Lament  for  Gwethalyn    53 

Carnival    Night    56 

Unrealized    59 

Mid-June    60 

As  When  a  Hungry  Man  Dreameth 61 

Potter's  Fields 62 

De   Gyarden    63 

To    Cleopatra    64 

The   Watcher's   Story 65 

Twilight  Songs   67 

The   Departure    69 

In  a  Boudoir 71 

The  Home  Coming   72 

The    Prisoner    74 

A  Night  Thought  at  Sea 76 

At  a  Play   78 

The   Sanctuary 79 

Two  Memories   80 

The  Little  House  Forgotten 81 

Marie  Stuart's  Mirror 83 

Enchantment    84 


CONTENTS 

Bravado    85 

When  You  Are  Gone 86 

Aspecta  Belli   87 

The  Dancing  Girl  in  Prison 88 

Lights   and    Shadows    89 

A  Song  of  Ladies'  Names 90 

An    Explanation    92 

Nineteen  Hundred  Fourteen 93 


JOCELYN :  A  PLAY 


CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 

JOHN  DICKSON,  Caretaker  of  the  ruin  of  Rossmar 

Castle. 

MRS.  DICKSON,  his  wife. 
ALICE,  their  little  daughter. 
JOHN,  their  son. 

JOCELYN,  Mr.  Dickson's  daughter  by  his  first  wife. 
JUSTIN  WILKINSON,  a  tourist. 
MRS.  WILKINSON,  his  wife. 
MARIAN  WILKINSON,  their  daughter. 

Place,  Rossmar  Castle. 

Time,  the  Present. 


JOCELYN 

SCENE  i 

The  stage  represents  the  courtyard  of  an  old  cas 
tle  which  closes  the  back  of  the  scene,  its  mossy  gray 
walls  against  a  clear  blue  sky.  A  little  to  the  left  of 
the  centre  there  is  a  wide  door,  above  it  the  faded 
traces  of  armorial  bearings  carved  on  the  stone,  to 
the  left  a  circular  tower  the  upper  half  of  which  has 
been  broken  or  fallen  away.  On  the  left  the  stage 
can  only  be  entered  by  a  gate  in  an  uneven  wall 
which  hangs  open  in  an  indolent,  dilapidated  way. 
The  right  of  the  stage  is  shut  off  with  bushes,  but 
toward  the  front  there  is  a  pool  on  which  a  few 
water  lilies  are  dancing.  The  stage  itself  is  a  gar 
den,  but  not  such  a  garden  as  one  might  expect  be 
low  an  old  castle;  a  cottage  garden,  with  a  row  of 
high  rose  bushes  crowded  against  the  wall,  just  in 
full  white  bloom.  There  is  a  daring  orange  sunflower 
too,  and  a  great  cluster  of  larkspur,  in  front  of  them 
mignonette  and  daisies. 

Inside  the  door  of  the  castle  one  catches  a  glimpse 
of  a  very  humble  room,  and  MRS.  DiCKSON  some 
times  passes  across  the  line  of  vision,  at  her  ironing. 
In  an  invalid's  chair  near  the  pool  JOCELYN  lies 
asleep,  so  placed  that  the  audience  cannot  see  her 
9 


JOCELYN 

face,  while  her  little  half-sister  ALICE  sits  on  the 
ground  looking  at  her,  her  chin  resting  meditatively 
in  her  hands,  her  brother  JOHN  is  near  by,  flat  on 
his  stomach,  his  feet  swinging  in  the  air,  as  he  bur 
rows  aimlessly  with  a  jack-knife.  After  a  few  mo 
ments  spent  in  contemplating  her  sister,  ALICE 
speaks. 
ALICE.  Isn't  she  lovely  there  asleep,  her  face 

So  flowery  fragile?   See  the  place 

Where  the  long  lashes  touch  her  cheek. 
Do  you  suppose 

I'll  be  as  pretty  ever? 

As  she  is  a  very  tousle-headed,  round,  little  per 
son  with  few  pretences  to  pulchritude,  her  brother 
bursts  into  a  roar  of  laughter  at  the  question. 
JOHN.  Why  your  nose 

Turns  up  like  a  cock  when  he  drinks, 

And  you're  all  freckledy. 

Exceedingly    enraged    by    this    somewhat    tactless 
frankness,  Alice  falls  upon  her  brother  with  intent 
to  torture. 
JOHN.  Ow!  you  minx, 

Don't   pull   my   hair.     You   asked   me, 

didn't  you? 

ALICE.          You  mean  thing. 
JOHN.  Well,  it's  so. 

ALICE.  It  isn't  true. 

JOHN.          It  is;  don't  be  a  silly. 
ALICE.  ( tearfully )  Anyway, 

10 


JOCELYN 

You  n — needn't  tell  me  so. 

She   weeps   with   the  abandon    of  youthful   rage. 
Her  brother  ignores  her  as  long  as  his  nerves  hold 
out.     Then  at  last: 
JOHN.  Oh,  say 

Ally,    you're    really    not    quite    such    a 

fright. 

She  weeps  on  unpacified.     He  tries  another  ma- 
neuvre. 
JOHN.          Did  you  hear  'em  creep  down  the  hall 

last  night? 

ALICE.          Hear  who? 
JOHN.  Hear  them,  the  old  ones. 

ALICE.  No,  did  you? 

JOHN.         Yes. 
ALICE.  (glancing  at  Jocelyn). 

Will  you  tell  her? 

JOHN.  No,  I'm  frightened  to. 

She's  friends  with  them.     Dad  says  it 

isn't  good 
To  be  friends  with  dead  people.     If  she 

should — 

Should  go  away  with  them — 
ALICE.  Don't.     I'm  afraid. 

Let's  run  and  play  something. 
JOHN.  Let's  wade. 

ALICE.          Oh,  goody,  yes. 

JOHN.  There's  someone  coming,  look. 

Down  by  the  gate. 
II 


JOCELYN 

ALICE.  Oh!  Hurry. 

JOHN.  Beat  you  down  the  brook. 

They  pull  off  their  stockings  quickly,  step  into  the 
pool  and  wade  away. 

They  are  hardly  out  of  sight  when  three  people 
appear  at  the  gate.  MR.  and  MRS.  WILKINSON, 
of  whom  no  more  needs  be  said  than  that  they  are 
tourists  and  deserving  of  the  utmost  stigma  attach 
ing  to  that  term,  and  their  daughter  MARIAN,  who 
though  she  is  a  tourist,  shares  none  of  the  stigma  but 
makes  of  touring  an  art — and  a  very  graceful  one. 
She  comes  in  before  the  others,  sees  the  courtyard 
and  turns. 
MARIAN.  Mamma,  White  roses!  Oh,  you  dear, 

dear  things, 

How  did  you  know  you  looked  so  love 
ly  there?    It  brings 
A  sort  of  strange  new  beauty,  just  that 

trace 
Of   humbler   sweetness    to    this   stately 

place, 
Beneath  the  crumbled  splendor  of  that 

wall 

A  clump  of  cottage  blossoms — 
MR.  W.      (impatiently)  Call, 

Marian,  see  if  there's  not  some  sort  of 

guide 

To  show  us  'round — we  haven't  long. 
MRS.  W.  Inside 

12 


JOCELYN 

There  seems  to  be  someone. 
MR.   WILKINSON   taps  on  the  ground  with  his 
stick.     MRS.  DiCKSON,  who  is  frantically  trying  to 
take  off  her  apron,  calls, 
MRS.  D.  One  moment,  sir, 

Just  till  I  lay  my  iron  by.     Things  are 

in  such  a  stir. 
I'm    ironing   and   of   course   my   man's 

away. 

MR.  W.      How  long'll  it  take  to  do  the  place? 
MRS.  W.  Oh!  What  a  day! 

(She  sinks  down  on  a  bench.) 
I  simply  can't  go  farther;  I'll  stay  here. 
While  you  go  on. 

MARIAN.  Then  I'll  stay  with  you,  dear. 

MR.  W.      Don't   be   absurd,   child.     Why,   when 

people  ask 
How    you    like    Rossmar,    what'll    you 

say? 

MRS.  W.  This  task 

Of  seeing  things  is  killing  me.  You  two 
Go  on.     I'll  wait;  it's  lovely  here. 
MARIAN,      (picking  a  spray  of  azure  larkspur) 

What  blue! 

What   color!    it    seems    flaming   every 
where. 
MRS.  D.      I'd  ask  you  in  the  house,  but  it's  so  hot 

in  there. 

MRS.  W.    That's  very  kind,  I'm  sure. 
13 


JOCELYN 

MR.  W.  Is  all  this  old 

Or  just  fixed  up  to  look  so? 
MRS.  D.      (bridling)  Why,  it's  told 

The  castle  stood  here  these  six  hundred 
years. 

The  Staers 

Have  owned  it  three  at  least. 
MARIAN.  Who  cares 

How  old  it  is?     It's  beautiful. 
MRS.  W.  What's  over  there 

Beside  the  pond,  in  the  old  cripple's 

chair  ? 

MRS.  D.     That's  Jocelyn,  she's  my  husband's  eld 
est,  she's  not  strong 
MRS.  W.     Is   it   contagious?    Justin,    we've    been 

here  too  long 
Already.      Let's    leave.      Where's    my 

bag? 

MRS.  D.  Don't  be  afraid, 

It  isn't  catching.     She's  a  little  maid 
Born  weakly  like,  but  no  disease. 
She  won't  be  here  long.     Jocelyn! 
MARIAN.  Please. 

Don't  wake  her. 
JOCELYN.  I  am  awake;  I  only  shut  my  eyes 

To  rest  them. 
MRS.  W.  Justin,  I  advise — 

Justin,  will  you  please  listen!    It's  too 
late 


JOCELYN 

To  dawdle,  you  two  go  right  on;  I'll 

wait. 
MRS.  D.     Jocelyn   will   tell  you  everything   right 

here. 

MARIAN.     That  certainly  should  please  you,  dear, 
Sight-seeing,  comfort,  travel  while  you 

sit — 

A  la  the  movies. 
MRS.  W.  I'd  like  seeing  it 

But  my  poor  feet,  you  know. 

MR.  W.  You've  some  ghosts,  I  suppose. 

MARIAN.     There  are  ghosts  everywhere  one  goes, — 

The   phantoms   of   dead   poets'    minds: 

Shakespeare 

Peopled  all  silent  places;  Guenevere, 
Mallory's  Guenevere,  haunts  every  an 
cient  room 

Where  once  queens  lived.    The  bloom 
Of  such  great  dreams  never  quite  fades 
Between  the  pillars  of  white  colonnades ; 
Electra  lingers  still — Not  ghosts 
Of  people  dead,  but  those  that  long  to 

be,   white   hosts 

Of  dreams.    They  haunt  all  places 
With  their  dim  forms  and  misty  faces. 
MR.  W.      When   you've    done    rhapsodizing,    let's 

be  off. 

MRS.   W.      (to   her   husband}    Justin,   come   here! 
(In  a  whisper) 
15 


JOCELYN 

If  I  hear  that  girl  cough, 
I  leave — she  looks  tubercular  to  me, 
Notice  her  lashes. 

MRS.  D.  This  way  please. 

MARIAN.  Just  see 

That  panelling. 
MRS.  D.  It's  been  time  out  of  mind 

Just  as — (their  -voices  are  heard  no  long- 

er) 
MRS.  W.  Is  there  a  legend  of  some  kind 

About  the  castle? 

JOCELYN.  Yes ;  there  are  quite  a  lot. 

MRS.  W.    Well,  could  you  tell  me  some.     Oh,  I 

forgot 
You're  ill.      If  you're  too   tired,   don't 

say  a  word 

But  rest.     And  I'll  pretend  I've  heard 
Everything  that  you  have  to  tell 
When  they  come  out. 
JOCELYN.  Oh,  I'm  quite  well, 

But  you  are  good  to  think  of  me.     I — 

I  love 
All  the  old  stories,  so  I'll  gladly  tell  you 

of— 

MRS.  W.     Everything  please. 

JOCELYN.      (in    the   conventional   manner  pointing 
to  the  tower) 

This  part,  dad  says, 
Was  built — 
16 


JOCELYN 

MRS.  W.  Not  dates.    My  mind's  a  maze 

Of  dates   and    periods.       Is    there    uu 

story  of  some  sort, 
The  kind  there  should  be,  all  about  this 

court 

And  that  old  tower? 
JOCELYN.  You  hate  them.    Oh,  I'm  glad. 

Dates. are  such  sombre  things. 
MRS.  W.  It's  quite  as  bad 

As  my  expense   account  to  keep   them 

straight. 

JOCELYN.     Well,  once  long,  long  ago — 
MRS.  W.     (with   a   kind   of   old-lady   sentimental 
ity.)      No,  wait, 
Say  once  upon  a  time. 
JOCELYN.  There  was  a  lord  of  Rossmar  who 

Married  a  Lady  Jocelyn — 
MRS.  W.  But  that's  your  name  too, 

Isn't  it? 

JOCELYN.  Yes,  my  mother  had  lived  here 

Since  she  was  just  a  girl,  the  name  was 

— was  very  dear 

To  her,  she  had  dreamed  over  it  so  long. 
She  died  when  I  was  born.     She  was 

not  strong. 
They  say  that  I  am  like  her.     When 

she  heard 

Her   baby   was   a   girl,    she   said   some 
word 

17 


JOCELYN 

So  very  low  they  could  not  hear  until 

they  bent 

Above  her  little  faded  smile.  She  meant 
Or  seemed   to   mean   that   they  should 

name 
Her    baby    Jocelyn.      That    is    how    it 

came 
That  I  am  called  by  such  a  lovely  word  ; 

you  see 
It  is  the  only  gift  that  she  could  leave 

for  me, 
A  word. 
MRS.     W.  Poor  child!   If  there  is  anything 

that  I  can  do, — 

JOCELYN.      Oh,  pardon  me,   I   had  almost  forgot 
ten  you 

And  Lady  Jocelyn's  story.     Did  I  say 
That  she  was  very  fair  in  that  old  way 
Of  beauty,  tall  and  straight, 
With  filmy,  sunny  hair,  whose  weight 
Fell  on  her  shoulders,  as  the  dusty  gold 
Of  pollen  falls  on  lilies.     It  is  told 
She  was  so  beautiful  her  husband   did 

not  dare 

Take  her  to  court. 
MRS.  W.  But   I   should   think  that   there 

She  would  have  shone. 

JOCELYN.  She  would, — too  much,  he  feared 

The   king  was — was — kind   of   a   Blue 
18 


JOCELYN 

Beard, 

Too  fond  of  pretty  ladies,  and — and  he 
Her  husband — 

MRS.  W.  He  didn't  trust  her — Oh,  I  see, 

With  golden  hair — I've  known  the  sort, 
And  a  blonde  moral  sense.     She'd  not 

have  done  at  court. 
JOCELYN.     Oh,    no,   she   wasn't   like   that,    people 

say, 
But  good,  not  just  great  lady  good — 

Each  day 

She  used  to  ride  the  circuit  of  her  lands 
Seeing   her   people.      Once   she  burned 

her  hands 

Saving  a  little  girl  whose  pinafore 
Had  taken  fire.     She  always  bore 
The  scars  of  it  on  her  white  skin. 
The  people  worshipped  her.    The  Inn 
Is  called  the  Lady  Jocelyn  still.   When 

the  plague  came, 
She  fought  it  with  them  as  she  had  the 

flame, 
Careless  about  herself.     Oh,  can't  you 

see 
How   good   she   must   have   been,   how 

carelessly 

He  must  have  judged  her,  for  to  him 
She  had  a  fault — her  womanhood,  being 

so  fair  and  slim 
19 


JOCELYN 

And  tender.     He  could  not  understand, 
He  wished  a  plaything  fashioned  to  his 

hand, 
Not   a   heart's   comrade.      Yet   he   put 

some  trust  in  her 

Or  else  he'd  not  have  sent  the  prisoner. 
MRS.  W.    What  prisoner? 

JOCELYN.  Haven't  I  told  you  that  one  day 

After  her  Lord  had  been  some  months 

away 

At  court,  a  cavalcade  rode  to  the  gate, 
Bringing  a  letter  in  the  form  of  state 
From  the  Lord  Rossmar — and  a  tall 

young  man 
Of  whom  the  letter  told.    "My  Lady," 

so  it  ran 
"This  youth  has  been  entrusted  to  my 

care 

By  His  Imperial  Highness.     An  affair 
(Of  which  you  may  know  nothing),  one 

of  some  import, 
Makes  it  imperative  he  shall  not  be  at 

court. 

Shut  him  in  some  safe  place  and  see 
That  he  is  guarded  well."    Ungracious 
ly 

The  letter  stopped,  for  that  was  all 
He  thought  that  she  should  know.     A 

seneschal 
2O 


JOCELYN 

He  would  have  thought  was  worthy  of 

more  trust, 
But  she — she  was  a  woman.     For  the 

dust 

And  grime  she  could  not  see  the  prison 
er,  whose  name 
Was   given    Richard    Guerdonlais.    But 

when  he  came 
Later   into   her   presence,    her   chaplain 

used  to  tell 
How  fright  came  to  her  eyes,  how  her 

fan  fell 
From  the  slim  hand  that  stole  up  to  her 

heart 
And  how  she  turned  her  face  away.  He 

played  a  part 
Perhaps,  if  he  had  known  her,   for  he 

drooped  his  eyes 
Submissively,  and  said  at  last,  when  it 

seemed  wise 

Since  she  did  not,  that  he  should  speak, 
"I    am   your   prisoner.      No  bonds  are 

weak 
With  which  your  ladyship  is  pleased  to 

bind." 

Then  she  looked  in  his  face,  quite  blind 
It  seemed,  to  any  memories,  and  bowed 
And  answered,  "I  am  very  proud 
So  gallant  a  fine  gentleman  should  stay 
21 


JOCELYN 

Under  my  care,  Richard — " 

"De    Guerdonlais? 

"Was  it  not  so  the  letter  said  ?"  he  asked 
And  then  for  the  first  time  she  smiled, 

but  masked 
The  smile  behind  her  fan,  and  bid  her 

servants  place 
The  prisoner  in  this  tower,  a  pleasant 

place 

And  yet  a  safe  one.    From  whose  case 
ment,  duly  barred 
He   could   peer   down    into    this    inner 

yard 
Which  was  her  garden.     Down  whose 

prim  clipped  ways 

She  wandered  every  day,  for  many  days, 
Ignoring  little  notes  that  fluttered  down, 
Freighted  with  what?  Gay  gossip  of 

the  town? 
Or  love  ?    Or  fragrant  memories  ?  Who 

knows? 

They  lay  unread,  wept  over  by  the  rose 
That  happened  to  be  fullest  blown.  A 

song 
Would    float   down   to   her   sometimes, 

but  for  long 
At   the   first   hearing  of   his   voice   she 

turned  and  fled 
To  her  own  panelled  room. 
22 


JOCELYN 

MRS.  W.     (disappointedly)  And  is  it  said 

She  never  saw  him? 
JOCELYN.  After  a  wait 

Of  several  months  there  galloped  to  the 
gate 

A  second  cavalcade  with  a  new  letter 
that  ran  thus: 

"The  King  has  changed  his  mind,  cap 
tives  are  dangerous, 

Turn  over  to  this  messenger  straight 
way 

Your   prisoner,    Richard   Guerdonlais." 

The  note  and  the  man's  face  seemed  to 
spell  death 

At  once  "Tomorrow,"  she  said, — held 
her  breath 

Lest  he,  the  messenger,  had  been  fore 
warned  ; 

He  did  not  speak,  it  seemed  he  had  not 
been,  she  turned 

Less  fearfully,    "Tomorrow    you    will 
bring 

The  prisoner  to  my  lord."    The  ring 

She  wore  trembled  against  his  lips ;  then 
she  withdrew 

To   her  own   room.     The  whole   day 
through 

She  waited — and  I  think  she  must  have 
prayed 

23 


JOCELYN 

Until  the  night  came,  silent  to  her  aid, 
And  must  have  trembled  as  she  waited 

there. 

At  midnight  through  the  castle  every 
where 
Was  heard  the  sound  of  beating  on  the 

gate — 
The  lord  of  Rossmar  had  returned.  He 

did  not  wait 
When    they    admitted    him,    but    asked 

which  was  the  prisoner's  cell — 
They  told  him.     He  went  instantly. 
MRS.  W.  Well?  Well? 

JOCELYN.     The  prisoner  was  gone. 
MRS.  W.  And  she,  go  on! 

JOCELYN.     The  Lady  Jocelyn  too  was  gone. 

He  never  found  them,  though  he  tried 

and   tried 

All  through  his  life. 

MRS.  W.  I  wonder  if  she  died. 

I  want  to  know  the  end.     Make  up  one. 

Do. 

Say  what  came  next. 

JOCELYN.  I  can't,  you  see,  it's  true. 

MRS.  W.     Oh,  what  an  irritating  thing  the  truth 

is.     If  you  can 
Make  up  one,  I'll  believe  it. 
MARIAN  runs  from  the  house  joyously. 
MARIAN.     Mamma,  see  what  I've  found — a  fan 
24 


JOCELYN 

And  such  a  fan,  all  lace  and  ivory 
Behind  a  swarthy  tapestry 
It  has  lain  years,  and  just  by  chance 
My  fingers  felt  it  there.    A  glance 
Showed  what  it  was,  and  father  gave  it 

me. 

MR.  W.      It  cost  a  pretty  penny,  too. 
MARIAN.  But  see 

The  past  itself  speaks  through  such  fra 
gile  things 
As  this,  not  through  the  chronicle  that 

sings 
A  crashing   battle   psalm,   but   through 

some  tiny  bit  of  bravery 
Fashioned  of  lace  and  silk,  of  coquetry 
Itself.      It   speaks   of    gallants'    plumes 

and  cloaks  of  vair, 
Of  candlelight,  white  throats  and  dusky 

hair, 

The  sweep  and  song  of  satins  and  ve 
lours, 

The  laughter  and  the  tears  of  old  am 
ours 

MR.  W.      All  this  about  a  fan! 
MARIAN.  It  isn't  just  a  fan  to  me, 

It  is  a  symbol. 
MRS.  W.  Let  me  see 

It  is  quite  charming. 

MARIAN.  I  never  felt  that  magic  thing 

25 


JOCELYN 

the  past 
Until  I  took  it  in  my  hand.    Just  think, 

the  last, 
The  very  last  who  touched  it,  did  it  so 

long  ago 

She  is  just  dust  and  echoes  now. 
MR.  W.  Oh,  I  don't  know 

Perhaps  some  tourist  laid  it  down. 
MRS.  W.  Justin! 

MARIAN.  There  lingers 

About  its  sticks  the  warmth  of  lovely 

ringers. 

MR.  W.      How  can  you  be  so  sure? 
MRS.  W.  Justin,  don't  tease,    . 

It's  getting  late,  we'd  best  be  going — 
JOCEYN.  Please 

Please  may  I  see  the  fan? 
MRS.  D.  Jocelyn! 

MARIAN.  Of  course  you  may. 

She  gives  it  to  her.    JOCELYN  takes  it,  spreads  it 
out,  puts  it  against  her  cheek  very  lightly. 
JOCELYN.     It  may  have  been  her  fan.    Perhaps  that 

day 
She  went  away  she  left  it  there.     Oh, 

speak, 
You  lovely  thing,  did  your  breath  touch 

her  cheek 

So  tenderly,  so  softly.     Did  you  rest 
Your  ivory  whiteness  in  her  white  young 
26 


JOCELYN 

breast  ? 

MR.  W.      What  are  we  waiting  for? 
MRS.  W.  Oh,  Heaven  knows. 

JOCELYN.     Once,  after  all  the  flowers  had  gone,  a 

tardy  rose 

Came  to  the  garden. 
MR.  W.  Well,  it's  late,  come,  Marian. 

MARIAN  holding  out  her  hand  to  JOCELYN. 
MARIAN.     I'm  sorry. 
JOCELYN.  Oh,  your  lovely  fan. 

It  has  told  me  so  many  faded  things. 
MRS.  D.     Why,  Jocelyn,  it  can't  talk. 
JOCELYN.  No,  for  it  sings. 

MARIAN.     Good-bye,  the  later  Jocelyn 
MRS.  W.  Shall  I  give  her  a  tip? 

MR.  W.     Of  course.      Don't   put  your  finger   to 

your  lip, 
Marian,    these   people   all   expect   their 

fees. 
MARIAN.     Not   this    one,    please    don't,    mother, 

please. 

MR.  W.     All  right. 
MRS.  W.     (graciously  to  MRS.  DICKSON) 

It  is  well  worth  the  trip  from  town. 
MRS.  D.      I  thank  you,  ma'am. 
MR.  W.  A  bit  run  down, 

But  paying  still.    Well,  come  on,  both  of 

you.     Good  day. 

MRS.  D.     There's  one  thing  about  folks  like  him, 
27 


JOCELYN 

— they  pay. 

JOCELYN.     The  girl  was  oh!  so  pretty,  wasn't  she? 
MRS.  D.     And  dressed  real  stylish  too, — that  or 
gandie 
Would  have  been  nice  for  you.     They 

paid 
Enough    for   that   old   fan    to   buy  you 

wine. 
JOCELYN.  Oh,  I'm  afraid 

I  couldn't  drink  the  wine. 
MRS.  D.  Why,  it  ain't  liquor,  dear, 

Not  when  you  take  it  for  your  health. 
JOCELYN.  Dad  won't  be  here 

Tonight? 
MRS.  D.  Not  anyway  till  late. 

He  must  have  missed  the  train.     Well, 

we  won't  wait 
Till  he  comes  back  to  go  to  bed.     He 

can  just  knock 

Until  he  wakes  us  up.     It  must  be  sev 
en  o'clock. 
He  can't  get  back  now  until  twelve,  at 

least. 
JOCELYN.     The  shadow  has  come  to  the  pool.   Like 

a  gray  beast 
Timid  but  thirsty.  Do  you  hear  the  last 

wild  bee? 

(She  goes  and  kneels  beside  the  pool, 
bending  over  it.) 
28 


JOCELYN 

They  are  the  weariest  flowers,  the  water 

lilies,  see 

How  their  cool  miser  fingers  close 
About  their  slender  gold — it  seems  the 

lily  knows 

Her  sister  stars  will  scatter  shinier  gold, 
And  so  she  hides  her  own. 
MRS.  D.  Oh,  you'll  take  cold 

If  you  stay  kneeling  there. 
MARIAN  comes  to  the  gate. 

MARIAN.     I  came,  I  couldn't  help  but  come  to — to 
MRS.  D.     You  want  your  money  back. 

MARION  holds  out  the  fan  to  JOCELYN. 
MARIAN.  To  give  this  you. 

JOCELYN.     The  fan! — Her  lovely  fan! 
MRS.  D.  Oh,   Miss,   I   can't  allow! 

MARIAN.     You   cannot   help   it — for   I've   done   it 

now. 

JOCELYN.     Oh,  girl,  what  is  your  name. 
MARIAN.  An  ugly  one — just  Marian. 

JOCELYN.      I  want  to  try — 
MARIAN.  No,  don't. 

She  turns  at  the  gate  and  throws  JOCELYN  a 
kiss.  JOCELYN  still  kneeling  with  the  fan  in  her 
hands,  croons  to  herself. 

JOCELYN.  Her  fan — her  fan. 

Curtain. 


JOCELYN 

SCENE  II 

Inside  the  castle.  The  stage  represents  the  hall  at 
the  foot  of  the  tower  staircase.  There  is  a  stove 
toward  the  back  at  the  left,  behind  which  the  pan 
elled  walls  have  been  whitewashed,  still  farther  to 
the  left  a  bench  littered  with  tin  kitchen  utensils. 
A  door  leads  off  left  to  the  sleeping  rooms.  On  the 
extreme  right  at  the  back  of  the  stage,  is  the  entrance 
to  the  tower  stair,  a  yawning  space  filled  in  former 
times  with  a  door  which  has  long  since  disappeared. 
Through  this  opening  one  can  see  the  staircase  wind 
ing  up;  but  its  uselessness  is  apparent,  for  the  tower 
is  fallen  away  so  far  that  one  can  catch  even  from 
the  interior  of  the  room  a  fugitive  glimpse  of  a 
space  of  sky  stitched  with  stars.  The  right  hand 
side  of  the  room  is  filled  with  two  great  panels  of 
exquisite  old  oak,  and  toward  the  front  there  is  a 
door  by  which  the  room  is  reached  from  outside.  A 
little  to  the  left  of  the  centre  is  a  kitchen  table 
on  which  is  a  lamp  and  two  candlesticks,  and  MRS. 
DICKSON'S  darning  materials.  MRS.  DiCKSON  sits 
at  the  left  of  this  table  at  work,  JOCELYN  at  the 
right  in  her  chair.  The  children  are  kneeling  be 
side  her.  As  the  curtain  rises,  JOCELYN  has  just  fin 
ished  a  story,  there  is  a  moment  of  expectancy  on  the 
part  of  the  children,  then  they  begin  to  plead. 

JOHN.          Just  one  more,  Jocelyn. 
ALICE.  Oh,  yes.   Please,  just  one. 

30 


JOCELYN 

JOHN.          About  the  twisted  dwarf. 
ALICE.  About  the  nun 

With  the  red  rose. 
MRS.  D.  Not  one.     It's  time  for  bed. 

Send  them  off,  Jocelyn. 
JOCELYN.  It's  too  late  now,  dears,  instead 

I'll  tell  you  one  tomorrow, — one  quite 

new. 

JOHN.          With  fighting  in  it? 
JOCELYN.      (nodding  her  assent}.     And  a  princess, 

too. 

ALICE.          It  seems  as  if  I  just  can't  wait. 
JOCELYN.     You'll  never  know  you're  waiting. 
MRS.  D.  And  it's  late 

For  Heaven's  sake,  be  off. 
ALICE.          The  princesses  have 

oh!  such  lovely  names, 

Blanchefleur  and   Elsinore. 
JOCELYN.  Like  windy  flames, 

Aren't  they? 

ALICE.  And  Melisande  and  Guenevere. 

MRS.  D.      How  do  you  think  'em  up? 
JOCELYN.  They're   ones   I   hear. 

Sometimes  the  visitors  speak  them. 
MRS.  D.  Look,  John  has  drooped  his  head 

He's  quite  asleep. 
JOHN.  (hearing  his  name.}     But  I  don't  want 

to  go  to  bed. 

JOCELYN  takes  his  hand  and  little  ALICE'S,  who 
31 


JOCELYN 

is  murmuring  very  sleepily. 

ALICE.          Tomorrow  is    the    loveliest    Princess's 

name  always,  it  seems. 
JOCELYN.     Perhaps  you'll  meet  the  Princess  some 

where  in  your  dreams. 

She  leads  them  out.    MRS.  D.  watches  them  plac 
idly,  then  turns  to  her  work  again.     As  she  looks 
over  the  stockings,  she  says, 
MRS.  D.     There  never  were  such  children  to  wear 

holes. 

(She  takes  up  a  pair.) 
Heels,    those   are   John's.      Alice   kicks 

out  the  soles. 
That's  as  it  should  be,  a  boy's  heavy 

tread 
Comes    down    more    firmly,    hers    trips 

where  she's  led 

And   lighter   like.      (Counting   the   re 
maining  stockings.) 
Heavens,  there's  three  more  pairs! 
Well,  I  can't  finish. 
Enter  JOCELYN. 

JOCELYN.  I've  heard  their  prayers, 

And  then  I  kissed  them,  blew  the  can 
dle  out, 
And   said    the   fairy   light  must   go    to 

sleep. 
MRS.  D.  Without 

Their  crying!  You're  a  hand  with  chil- 
32 


JOCELYN 

dren, 
JOCELYN.  Why, 

I  always  say  the  things  I  think  that  I 
Would  like  to  have  had  said  when   I 
was  little  too. 

MRS.  D.      I  never  said  'em.     Well,  I  never  knew, 
I  guess.      (She  goes  and  puts  her  arm 

around  Jocelyn) 
I'm  sorry. 

JOCELYN.  Oh,  you  were  good,  so  good, 

And  I  am  such  a  weakly  thing.     You 

knew  I  never  could — 
Could  help  you  much.     But  aren't  the 

things  one  wanted  so 
And  never  had  just  good  because  you 

know 

Through  them  what  others  want? 
MRS.  D.  I  never  wanted  much 

Excepting  clothes  and  food  and  such. 
And  to  hold  up  my  head  with  decent 

folk 

Of  course  I  should  have  liked  a  hand 
some  cloak 
With  jet — 

JOCELYN.  How  strange,  never  to  know  desire ! 

Never  to  want  till  wanting  grew  a  fire 
That  burned  your  soul.    Why  I  would 

give  my  life  for  things 
To  wear  and  see  and  hold.    For  rings 
33 


JOCELYN 

And    silken    furs — things    that    you've 

just  admired 
I've  wanted  and   I've  had   them  too — 

yes  all  that  I  desired 
Holding  the  longing  close. 
MRS.   D.      (working  sleepily  has  not  heard  her). 

I  guess  I'll  put  these  things  away 
And  go  to  bed  myself.     What  did  you 

say? 
JOCELYN.      Nothing — "nothing" — the      frightened 

word 
We   say     when     we     think    someone's 

heard 

The  things  we  really  mean. 

MRS.  D.  I  don't  suppose 

Your     father'll     come     tonight.       But 

Heaven  only  knows. 
If  he  does,  since  you're  near  the  door, 
Will  you  just  let  him  in. 
JOCELYN.  Of  course,  before 

His  knocking  wakes  the  children. 
MRS.  D.  I  hope  that  we  shan't  hear 

The  haunts  tonight. 
JOCELYN.  I  always  listen,  dear, 

But  I  have  never  heard  them.    I  should 

be  so  glad 
I   know   them   all   so  well.      Geoffrey, 

Conrad, 
And  that  poor  crippled  Hugh. 

34 


JOCELYN 

MRS.  D.  That  awful  Hugh 

It's  him  I'm  scared  of. 
JOCELYN.  Lady  Jocelyn,  too, 

If   I  could  hear  her  light  step  on  the 

stairs — 
MRS.  D.      Lord,   Jocelyn,    don't.     Why,     in    my 

prayers 
That's  what  I  beg  the  Lord  to  spare  me 

most. 
JOCELYN.     You'd    be    afraid!    Her    tender    little 

ghost ! 

She  never  comes.    I  sit  here  in  my  chair 
Just  hoping. 
MRS.  D.  I  hear  'em  everywhere 

All  through  the  castle.     I  don't  see  how 

you  dare  to  stay 

Here  of  all  places  where  they  say 
She  comes  back  every  night  to  call  to 

him 
And  he  comes  down  the  stair.    And  it's 

so  dim 
And    dreadful.      Don't   you    know   the 

fear? 
JOCELYN.     The  wind   and   all   the   stars   are  very 

near 
And  the  dear  Garden's  just  behind  that 

wall. 
MRS.  D.      (nervously} 

Well — well — good      night.        If     they 
35 


JOCELYN 

come,  you  might  call, 
Though   I  shan't  answer.     Still  you'd 

best.     Good  night. 

JOCELYN.     Will  you  please  light  the  taper? 
MRS.  D.  What?  A  light? 

Why,  aren't  you  going  to  sleep? 
JOCELYN.  Please  leave  it  here 

Burning  beside  me. 

MRS.  D.  Ah !  So  you  do  know  the  fear. 

JOCELYN.      No,  not  of  them,  and  yet — I  am  afraid 

I  am  afraid  that  I  might  die. 
MRS.  D.  Why,  little  maid ! 

JOCELYN.      Here  in  the  darkness,  I  hate  darkness 

so. 
My  soul  would    be    afraid — afraid,    I 

know. 
It   would   be  dreadful   to  meet   Death 

afraid.     To  die 
Choked  with  the  blackness. 
MRS.     D.  Oh,  you've  made  me  cry. 

You  won't  die,  little  maid. 
JOCELYN.  Not  long, 

It  won't  be  long. 
MRS.  D.  Jocelyn! 

JOCELYN.  You  are  so  strong 

I   seem   to   feel   the   life,   here   in   your 

breast 

In  your  strong  arms.     Life !  that  is  best 
Of  all  the  gifts !  and  I  have  never  known 
36 


JOCELYN 

it  yet. 
MRS.  D.     Good  night.  Don't  think  such  thoughts. 

Don't  fret. 

JOCELYN.     Good  night. 
(MRS.  DICKSON  goes) 

It  is  a  solemn  thing  to  say 
Even  "Good  night."  Sleep  is  so  far  away 
From  everything  we  know,   a  kind  of 

miracle,  and  yet 

We  have  grown  used  to  it,  and  so  for 
get. 
We  have    forgotten    many    miracles — 

waking  and  light 
The  miracles  of  silence  and  of  song,  the 

night 
That  blossoms  like  a  great  blue  tree,  in 

gold. 

Yet  that  we  see  so  often  we  stay  cold 
And  do  not  wonder.     Yet  a  few  still 

keep 
Their  ancient  strangeness.     Death  and 

dreams,  not  sleep. 

(She  leans  back  wearily  and  closes  her  eyes;  then 
opens  them  again.) 

Will  you  come  back,  in  a  sweet  dream, 

girl  of  to-day 
Who  reached  across  the  distance — young 

and  gay 

And  beautiful,  to  touch  my  hand  and 
37 


JOCELYN 

give  me  this 

This  gift  of  gifts. 

(She  takes  the  fan  from  her  dress  and  strokes  it) 
How  beautiful  it  is! 

Made  out  of  dreams. 

She  leans  back  in  her  chair,  leaving  the  fan  in 
her  lap,  her  eyes  close.  In  the  intense  stillness  one 
can  hear  a  restless  breeze  that  has  found  its  way 
into  the  castle,  burdened  with  the  murmurs  of  gar 
ments,  with  forgotten  sighs,  with  all  the  mysterious 
little  sounds  that  breezes  treasure  up  for  silent  times 
and  memory  haunted  places.  Something  rattles  on 
the  bench  where  the  tin  utensils  were.  Glancing 
toward  the  sound,  one  sees  that  the  tins  are  no  longer 
there;  in  their  place  is  a  cloak  flung  over  a  carved 
chest,  on  which  gleams  the  thin  shaft  of  a  sword.  The 
stove  is  gone,  too,  and  the  walls,  instead  of  being 
roughly  whitewashed,  are  hung  with  deep  toned 
tapestries.  JOCELYN  is  not  sitting  in  a  cripple's 
chair,  but  in  a  high  seat,  and  the  candle  beside  her 
rests  in  a  massive  candelabrum  on  a  huge  table.  Her 
humble  clothes  have  changed  to  a  long  robe  of  green 
with  a  heavy  golden  girdle.  Only  the  fan  in  her 
lap  remains  the  same.  Her  hand  slips  from  the  arm 
of  her  chair  and  touches  it.  The  snap  of  its  open 
ing  seems  to  waken  her,  she  rises,  no  touch  of  the 
old  feebleness  in  her  action.  She  walks  up  and  down; 
one  can  see  that  she  is  troubled.  She  brushes  across 
her  forehead  with  the  back  of  her  hand.  At  last  she 
38 


JOCELYN 

speaks  in  the  voice  of  one  who  is  almost  decided  on  a 
course. 

JOCELYN.  I  do  not  dare,  I  am  afraid, 

My  lord,  what  would  you  say? 

That  I — that  I  had  played 
The  traitor.     Or  did    you    know    this 
when  you  sent  him. 

And  is  it  just  a  test? 
And  if  I  fail  in  this,  what  then?     Is 

it  not  best 
To   fail   when   failure   is   the   price  of 

good?     I  am  ashamed 
That  I  should  pause. 

(She  starts  toward  the  staircase,  which  is  now 
hidden  by  a  heavy  door,  but  as  she  goes  another 
thought  seems  to  stop  her.) 

Jocelyn   of   Rossmar  named 
A  wanton.    No!    Oh,  God  of  troubled 
hearts,  show  me  the  way.     I  know 
It  is  not  right  that  he  should  die.  Long, 

long  ago 

In  a  lost  time  of  sunlight,  God,  I  saw 
His  heart  as  you  must  see  men's  hearts 

— no  law 
Blinding   my   eyes,    only   love   lighting 

them.    We  were 
So  very  young.    You  must  have  smiled 

— the  stir 

Of  life  was  just  a  whisper  in  our  ears, 
39 


JOCELYN 

and  such  a  whisper — fair 
And  frail  as  a  bird's  song  at  sundown. 

Everywhere 
We  looked  was  youth  and  joy  to  be. 

And  then — 
Ah,  God,  can  women  know  the  hearts 

of  men? 
If  so,  I  knew  his  heart.    The  wind  crept 

frightenedly 

Along  the  rose  walk  when  he  came  to  me 
That  night.     We  wore  no  masks  that 

wild  night  of  good-bye 
And  yet  there  was  no  sin.     I  think  that 

I— 
I   might   have    sinned.      His    was    the 

stronger  soul 

And  so  we  parted — and  I  stole 
Back  to   my  father's    house    in    tears. 

Honor,   on   your  high   shrine 
We  laid  a  sacrifice,  his  love  and  mine, 
All  beautiful  and  young,  stained  with 

the  bitterness  of  tears 
This  we  have  given,  given  through  the 

years. 
I   cannot   sacrifice   again.      Not    this — 

not  this 
Your   empty   name's   not  worth    a   life 

like  his 

(She  runs  to   the  door  of  the  tower  unlocks  it 
40 


JOCELYN 

flings  it  open  and  calls) 

Richard,  Richard.     Come,  you  must  go 

away. 
A  letter's   come   from   Rossmar.     One 

more  day 
And  it  would  be  too  late.     Why  don't 

you  come? 
I'll  have  a  horse  made  ready.    Are  you 

dumb 
That  you  don't   answer?     Won't  you 

come  to  me? 

The  wind  has  risen.     As  she  speaks  these  words, 
a  gust  blows  out  the  thin  flame  of  the  candle,  and 
the  room  is  in  total  darkness. 
JOCELYN.      Make  haste,  make  haste. 

The  frightened  voice  of  little  ALICE  cries, 
ALICE.  The  ghosts!  Oh,   focelyn! 

Just  then  there  is  a  thundering  knock 

at  the  gate. 
JOCELYN  screams  Hear!  It's  he, 

Rossmar's     returned.       Richard,    don't 

wait! 
I  love  you  so — Thank  God.     It's  not 

too  late. 
Take  the  sword  on  that  chest,  and  the 

cloak  too,  and  this 
(She  screams  as  though  to  a  gate  keeper} 

Don't  let  him  in.     Behind  the  tapestry 
there  is 


JOCELYN 

A  swinging  panel.    Wait,  wait!    I  used 

to  know 

The  secret  spring.     There! 

Little  JOHN'S  voice,  Jocelyn,  don't  go! 

ALICE.          Don't  go  with  them. 

The  beating  on  the  door  comes  again. 

JOCELYN  fiercely: 
JOCELYN.  Listen!  Just  hear 

Hear  how  he  beats  the  door.  It  is  the 

fear, 
The  fear  that's  on  him.     He  don't  trust 

us.     Well, 

He  does  well  not  to  trust  me.     Hide! 
There  is  a  noise  of  someone  falling.    From  the 
left  comes  a  voice — MRS.  DICKSON'S: 
MRS.  D.  Whar  fell  ? 

What  is  the  knocking  at  the  door? 
She  comes  in  carrying  a  lamp.  The  tapestry  and 
the  rich  furnishings  are  gone — //  is  the  same  hall 
transformed  back  to  a  hovel.  Only  the  panel  at  the 
right  of  the  stairs  has  swung  away  and  before  the 
opening  lies  JOCELYN'S  little  crumpled  figure. 

Little  ALICE  is  cowering  against  the  wall;  JOHN 
is  kneeling  behind  the  table. 
MRS.  D.     What's    happened?    Jocelyn,     are    you 

hurt? 

Run,  John,  and  let  your  father  in. 
JOCELYN.      (still  half  asleep.)  My  skirt 

Caught  in  the  door — won't  open. 


JOCELYN 

MRS.  D.  You're  asleep — 

Wake  up,  dear. 
JOCELYN.  I'm  very  tired.     Please  may   I 

keep 

The  light  beside  me. 

JOHN  has  opened  the  door  and  let  MR.  DiCKSON 
in. 

MR.  D.       What  happened?  John,  why  didn't  you 
Or  some  one  let  me  in.     I'm  chilled 

clear  through. 
It's  gotten  cold. 

Little  ALICE  stands  staring  at  the  opening  from 
which  the  panel  has  slid  away. 
ALICE.  Where  have  they  gone?  Why  did 

they  go? 

MRS.  D.     Who's  gone  ?    What  are  you  talking  of  ? 

ALICE.  Why,  don't  you  know? 

Didn't  you  see  them?     Didn't  you  see 

them  stand 
Just  for  a  moment  in  that  place?     He 

held  her  hand 
Against  his  lips  and  they  were  dressed 

like  pictures.      Why! 
Why,  there's  his  sword!  You  came  and 

then   they  went — but  I 
I  saw  them. 

MR.    DICKINSON    realizes    that    something    very 
strange  has  happened. 

MR.  D.  Is  the  child  hurt  ? 

43 


JOCELYN 

JOCELYN.  No, 

Only  I  am  a  little  tired.    Dad,  hold  me. 
He  takes  her  in  his  arms.     MRS.  DICKSON  feels 
her  pulse. 

MRS.  D.  It's  very  slow. 

JOCELYN.     Hold  me  up,  father,  toward  the  stars. 
Her  father  stands  at  the  foot  of  the  broken  stair 
way  and  holds  her  as  high  as  he  can. 
JOCELYN.     Wasn't  it  beautiful — the  scars 

Never  quite   left  her  hand,   they   were 

like  roses 
Always.    One  last  bee — then  the  flower 

closes 
Sleepily. 

MRS.  D.  She's  dying.     It's  the  end. 

JOCELYN.  Yes,  yes,  you  in  the  sky, 

You  broken  lights  of  stars — lighten  my 

soul — I  do  not  want  to  die 
Life  is  so  beautiful.    Father! 
MR.  D.  Yes. 

MRS.  D.  Yes,  little  maid. 

JOCELYN.     To  die  is — 

Her    voice    has    been     frightened;    suddenly    it 
changes  to  almost  a  song. 

— is  beautiful.     I'm  not  afraid. 
The   darkness — is — so — bright. 
Her  head  droops  back,  her  arms  stiffen  a  little 
about  her  father's  neck. 

MRS.  D.  She  is  dead. 

44 


JOCELYN 

JOHN.          She's   gone   with   them,   Dad,   like  you 

said. 
MR.  D.     Her  body  was  a  little  lamp  and  her  soul 

flamed  too  high 
And  shattered  it. 

MRS.  DICKSON  goes  and  smoothes  out  the  blank 
et  of  the  invalid's  chair,  then  turns  to  her  husband 
who  still  is  holding  the  little  body. 
MRS.  D.  Here,  where  she  used  to  lie. 

Together  they  put  it  very  tenderly  in  the  chair. 
Little  ALICE  who  is  sobbing  sees  something  on  the 
floor  and  picks  it  up. 
ALICE.          The  lovely  fan  is  broken. 

JOHN  has  gone  to  the  open  panel,  he  takes  out  the 
sword.     He  tries  to  talk  about  "something  else"  as 
children  do  when  they  suffer. 
JOHN.          It's  very  heavy — see  the  rust. 
ALICE.  (stoops  down  and  peers  in  too.) 

Look,  John,  a  golden  girdle. 
JOHN.  And  what  else? 

ALICE.  Dust. 


45 


POEMS 


THE  NEW  MUSE 
In  Praise  of  the  Movies 

Her  shrine  is  a  narrow  darkened  room, 
A  gleam  of  light  through  a  powerful  glass, 
A  speeding  wheel  and  a  smooth  white  screen 
Where  her  pageants  of  shadows  pass, — 
Shadows,  but  filled  with  a  fire  of  life, 
Treading  the  measures  she  bids  them  dance 
Mirth,  Adventure,  and  Love,  and  Death, 
The  forms  of  a  new  Romance. 

And  though  they  are  tawdry  and  dim  at  times, 

Their  robes  but  pitifully  fine, 

This  muse  can  number  more  worshippers 

Than  all  the  haughtier  nine, 

This  wonderful  lady,  this  high  Romance 

Stepped  down  from  the  ivory  hall 

To  give  herself  to  the  humble  folk 

For  almost  nothing  at  all. 

To  give  herself — the  best  of  herself, 
Renouncing  the  gaud  of  that  bright  word  Art 
For  a  place  in  the  temple  of  Everyday 
And  the  shrine  of  the  humble  heart. 
There  she  has  found  what  the  others  have  lost 
Through  the  fault  of  the  pride  they  have  learned 
through  the  years 


49 


The  incense  of  honest  laughter, 
The  grace  of  unquestioning  tears. 

Her  watchers  are  one  with  the  listeners 

To  Homer's  stories  of  Troy, 

And  the  ardor  of  Paris  for  Helen 

Thrills  through  the  butcher's  boy. 

At  the  sight  of  the  frail  fair  picture  girl 

With  her  pale  sweet  face  and  her  hair  blown  down, 

And  youth,  his  heart,  bends  low  to  kiss 

The  hem  of  her  beauty's  gown. 

Then  that  freckled  Miss  with  the  leaf-brown  eyes, 

She  knows,  and  however  else  could  she  hear 

Of  the  magic  of  Juliet's  moonlit  face, 

And  the  passion  of  Guenevere — 

Of  the  great  high  pathos  of  sweet  Jeanne  d'Arc, 

Of  the  Lady  of  Coventry: 

She  has  passed  through  the  gate  of  the  land  of  the 

stars 
All  for  a  five  cent  fee. 

She  has  left  her  world  of  the  shop  and  town 

Though  the  dust  is  still  on  her  skirt, 

And  her  heart  is  filled  with  the  wonderment, 

The  age-old  beautiful  hurt, 

And  the  cheap  and  tawdry  fades  unseen 

While  the  beauty  shines  and  gleams, 

And  the  only  dust  that  her  spirit  knows 

Is  the  dust  of  the  stars  and  of  dreams. 


50 


Beside  her  a  man,  an  old,  old  man 

Has  his  wrinkled  hands  clasped  over  a  cane, 

And  a  vivid  light  in  his  time-dimmed  eyes 

As  though  he  were  young  again, 

As  though  he  had  youth  and  strength  and  love, 

As  though  he  were  playing  the  picture  play 

For  to  him  the  shadowy  mimic  love 

Shines  with  the  glamor  of  yesterday. 

To  him  that  girl  in  the  picture  play 

Is  a  sort  of  ghost  of  the  girl  he  knew 

In  that  wistful,  miserable,  thoughtless  time 

When  the  city  held  some  of  youth's  magic  too, 

When  even  his  grim  old  office  desk 

Was  less  of  a  task  than  a  shrine, 

Because  when  a  star  hangs  over  a  pool, 

The  murkiest  waters  shine. 

To  him,  to  all  of  them  sitting  there, 

The  plays  are  a  spirit's  fire 

For  the  burning  to  dust  of  the  common  things, 

Pain  and  care  and  desire, 

For  a  moment's  loss  in  forgetfulness 

Of  the  strife  that  each  one  strives, 

For  the  merging  of  lives  grown  over-tired 

Into  young  unwearied  lives. 


At  last  the  pictures  flicker  out, 

The  audience  sighs  and  rises, 

And  each  man  hides  his  self  of  dream 

Under  his  old  disguises, 

But  each  returns  to  the  trudging  life 

Of  the  little  everyday, 

With  a  soul  that  droops  less  wearily 

For  the  glimpse  of  far  away. 

For  there  never  comes  to  our  high  walled  streets 

Some  wind  that  has  known  the  plain, 

That  treasures  still  the  sunny  scent 

It  has  caught  from  the  miles  of  grain. 

As  it  came  on  its  careless  trackless  path 

No  wearier  feet  than  the  wind's  could  have  trod, 

But  it  breathes  a  word  of  the  good  in  the  world. 

And  the  Peace  in  the  heart  of  God. 

So,  though  this  muse  has  left  the  halls 

For  a  cheap,  sweet,  mortal  fame, 

She  has  builded  a  holier  temple 

And  lighted  a  shining  flame: 

She  gives  great  gifts  to  her  worshippers, 

Merciful  gifts  without  cease — 

To  the  weary  the  gift  of  forgetfulness 

To  the  troubled  the  gift  of  peace. 


A  LAMENT  FOR  GWETHALYN 

A  crumbling  corridor  wherein 

Grave  waters  seep 
Treasures  the  Lady  Gwethalyn 

And  the  long  stillness  of  her  sleep. 

The  spun  late  sunlight  of  her  hair 

Frames  between  two  straight  folds  her  face 
And  an  unrippled  shroud  of  vair 

Hides  all  her  miracle  of  grace. 

Her  slender  hands  that  wrought  so  well, 
Enchanter  potent  each  white  hand, 

Lie  underneath  a  deeper  spell 
Than  Merlin  in  Broceliande. 

And  from  them  they  have  stripped  her  rings 

Her  emeralds  carven  cabusson 
Her  rubies — all  the  shining  things 

And  they  lie  waxenly  and  wan. 

The  nuns  who  robed  her  for  her  fete 

Granted  no  bit  of  bravery — 
It  is  not  proudly  one  must  wait 

That  strange  hour  called  eternity. 


53 


Yet  sure  she  was  not  formed  for  this 
To  be  so  solemnly  attired — 

Desireful  as  Semiramis 

Where  are  the  beauties  she  desired  ? 

I  wonder  can  she  quite  forget — 

She  loved  them  so! — though  lying  there 

No  sultry  opals  heavy  set 

Caught  in  her  bright  Venetian  hair? 

No  drowsy  attars  subtly  pressed 
From  roses  blown  in  far  Shiraz 

Upon  the  coarse  cloth  on  her  breast 
In  the  strait  resting  place  she  has. 

No  gold  of  Ophir  wraps  her  round 
Nor  woven  silks  from  Samarcand 

Only  the  youngest  sister  found 

And  hid  one  white  rose  in  her  hand. 

She  was  so  very  young  and  vain 

It  seems  they  might  have  granted  her 

Some  little  gift  of  jewelled  chain 
Or  little  grace  of  myrrh. 

For  she  was  one,  this  Gwethalyn, 
Who  knew  the  garden  at  all  hours 

Who  drank  all  living  beauty  in 
Were  it  of  song  or  dusk  or  flowers. 


54 


Why,  I  have  sometimes  seen  her  pale 
In  a  sheer  wonder  of  delight 

To  see  a  flaunting  peacock's  tail 
Rose-window-like  against  the  light. 

And  I  have  known  her  in  her  room 
Just  for  the  joy  of  something  fair 

To  wind  all  kind  of  forest-bloom 
In  that  bright  auriflamme  her  hair. 

Does  it  not  then  seem  somehow  strange 
That  she  who  loved  things  earthly  so 

Should  fall  upon  this  sudden  change 
And  know  not  all  she  used  to  know  ? 


55 


CARNIVAL  NIGHT 

A  Song  to  Aphrodite 

We  who  have  scorned  you  are  done  with  the  scorn 
ing; 

We  crawl  to  your  fair  white  feet  to  night. 
Morning  may  bring  the  gods  of  the  morning; 
These  are  your  hours  and  your  old  delight. 
Aphrodite,  white  bosomed  and  slender, 
Coral  and  ivory  carven  slim, 
It  is  to  you  that  we  make  surrender 
Never  remembering  Him. 
Creed  of  the  beautiful  sensuous  form, 
Creed  of  the  dancing  soul  that  forgets, 
Here,  where  desire  is  a  blinding  storm 
That  no  man  battles,  that  none  regrets; 
Here,  in  the  blindness  to  aeons  of  morrows 
After  the  lapse  of  the  dragging  years, 
While  the  weary  face  of  the  Man  of  Sorrows, 
Whose  eyes  peer  dim,  through  a  mist  of  tears, 
Is  forgotten  before  the  light  of  your  splendor, 
The  light  of  your  careless,  carnal  face 
We  render  you,  what  you  would  have  us  render 
Youth's  red  lips,  and  youth's  mad  young  grace. 
We  who  have  hearkened  your  voice — sensation, 
Till  our  souls  reel  drunk  with  our  pulses'  beating. 
This  is  our  tribute — our  adoration 
This  that  we  dance  while  the  night  is  fleeting, 
This  we  give  for  the  gifts  you  have  brought  us, 


This  for  the  gifts  of  roses  and  wine, 

This  for  Nepenthe,  and  Lethe  and  lotus — 

We  who  are  drugged  with  your  anodyne. 

We  have  made  an  end  of  the  gods  that  we  prayed  to, 

We  have  forgotten  their  pageantried  numbers, 

We,  whose  ancient  passions  once  made  you, 

Wake  you  this  night  from  your  passionless  slumbers, 

Wake  you  with  song  and  with  dancing  and  feting 

Wine  of  the  vineyard  and  garden's  red  bloom. 

Ah,  have  you  waited  as  we  have  been  waiting 

There  in  the  dusk  of  your  silent  tomb? 

We  have  been  bowed  to  the  Carpenter's  Son, 

Pressing  our  lips  to  his  garment's  hem, 

Mammon,  and  Buddah — Ah,  one  by  one 

We  have  gilded  our  idols  and  shattered  them. 

Yet  I  think  that  none  of  them  ever  has  died, 

For  the  soul  of  man  has  a  thousand  creeds, 

And  the  soul  is  not  proud  with  the  body's  pride — 

Our  needs  have  sought  them,  our  poor  men's  needs, 

And  each  of  the  Gods  has  a  shrine  for  man 

Where  his  soul  may  bow  as  the  moment  slips, 

Man's  soul,  whose  freedom  is  greater  than 


37 


The  broken  faith  he  swears  with  his  lips. 

So  to-night  it  is  not  we  have  wakened  you  sleeping 

But  we  have  spoken  your  praise  aloud; 

Oh,  we  were  weary  of  weeping,  and  weeping, 

Our  souls  were  weary  of  being  bowed, 

So  we  came  to  you — lover  with  weary  lover, 

For  your  long  slim   throat,  and  your  blue  veined 

breast, 

For  the  dusk  where  your  slumbrous  eyelids  hover; 
It  is  best,  perhaps,  in  the  end — it  is  best. 

It  is  over — the  night  with  its  dazzle  of  faces — 
It  is  grown  as  gray  as  the  lips  of  the  dead. 
The  dancers  are  gone  from  their  shining  places, 
There  is  red  on  the  floor — spilled  wine's  dull  red. 
There  is  only  one  girl  of  them  all  who  lingers 
Here  in  abandon's  ruins — dumb, 
Her  rouged  face  hid  by  her  frightened  fingers — 
The  dawn  of  the  Galilean  is  come. 


UNREALIZED 

They  pass,  the  powerless  dreams, 

Of  things  that  never  may  be, 
Pass  into  time  as  the  weary  streams 

That  merge  in  the  heart  of  a  tideless  sea, 
Each  a  languid,  regretful  maiden, 

Frail  as  a  lily's  slender  stem, 
And  the  winds  of  the  world  are  laden 

With  the  tears  men  shed  for  them. 

Their  sister  dreams  being  strong, 

Have  fashioned  beautiful  things 
Out  of  men's  hopeless  passions  song, 

Peace  from  the  sorrowing  hearts  of  kings; 
But  they — no  blossom  nor  fruit  nor  bud 

Falls  from  their  fragile  hands,  it  seems, 
Yet  the  thorns  of  the  world  are  red  with  blood 

From  the  torn  white  feet  of  dreams. 


59 


MID-JUNE 

The  filmy  Queen  Ann's  lace  is  bent, 
That  reared  its  fragile  head  so  high, 
Beneath  the  black  and  azure  wings 
Of  a  sombre  butterfly, 
And  a  summer  scent  is  over  the  woods 
And  a  new  deep  blue  in  the  sky. 

The  dust  has  powdered  all  the  heads 
Of  the  buttercups  and  the  grasses; 
The  clover  yields  its  honeyed  heart 
To  every  bee  that  passes; 
And  the  daisies  wander  over  the  hills 
In  trembling  moon-white  masses. 

The  Poppy's  flowers  are  crumpled 

Under  the  soft  June  rain ; 

But  the  Iris  shines  in  the  border, 

And  the  lupines  in  the  lane, 

And  the  blossoms  blown  from  the  locust  trees 

Drift  on  the  pool  again. 


6c 


AS  WHEN  A  HUNGRY  MAN  DREAMETH 

Last  night  I  dreamed  again.    No  strange  new  place, 

No  shadowed  pleasance,  no  moon-drenched  parterre, 

Was,  in  my  dream,  the  setting  for  your  face, 

But  you  knelt,  with  your  loose  bound,  sunny  hair 

In  your  own  little  garden — as  you  used 

Among  the  flowers  you  loved ;  heartsease 

With  tiny  faces  whimsically  amused, 

Poppies,  and  iris  blooms,  and  peonies. 

And    while   you    worked,   you   sang,    beneath   your 

breath, 

The  notes  of  some  forgotten,  happy  air. 
But  at  your  side  an  angel  stood  named  Death, 
An  angel — yet  you  did  not  know  him  there. 
I  tried  to  say  to  you  that  he  was  near 
Wearily,  as  in  dreams  one  tries. 
You — though  my  words  seemed  not  to  reach  your 

ear — 

Glanced  up,  with  glad,  sweet  questioning  eyes, 
As  one  who  hears  but  fails  to  understand. 
And,  since  that  stately  form  you  did  not  see, 
Smiling,  you  raised  one  grimy  little  hand, 
Kissed  it — and  blew  the  kiss  to  me. 

I  woke.     Outside  were  hurried  feet, 
The  petty  thunder  of  the  city's  dawn. 
But  from  the  murmur  of  that  restless  street 
You,  and  your  garden  face, — were  gone. 


61 


POTTER'S  FIELDS 

They  are  so  sad,  those  level  wind-swept  places, 
Under  the  sodden  grass  and  rain-drenched  bough, 
That  sameness  that  one  sees  in  beggars'  faces 
Haunting  their  narrow  houses  now. 

Some   flowers — a   few   crushed   handfuls   here   and 

there — 

Wild  blossoms,  free  to  gather  for  the  tearing, 
And  yet  so  few  have  even  paused  to  care, 
And  all  the  rest  gone  past  uncaring. 


DE  GYARDEN 

Crocus,  shinin'  in  de  snow, 
Tulips  tryin'  hard  to  blow, 
O'l  Miss  Piny,  blushin'  red 
Puttin'  out  her  sturdy  head 
Like  a  bird  dat's  gwine  to  sing, — 
Dat's  de  gyarden  in  de  spring. 

Rose  o'  Canterbury  bells, 
Clumps  o'  foxgloves,  spicy  smells, 
Grassy  paths  between  the  beds 
Overhung  by  lilies'  heads, 
Hollyhocks  a-swingin'   high, — 
Dat's  de  gyarden  in  July. 

Spots  where  yo'  can  see  the  ground, 
Tufts  o'  greeny  grass  around, 
Flauntin'  chrysys,  'bout  to  die, 
Wavin'  to  de  yeah  "good-bye," — 
Sometimes  think  it's  best  of  all, 
Is  de  gyarden  in  de  fall. 


TO  CLEOPATRA 

Did  you  thrid  poppies  in  your  hair, 
That  Caesar  dreamed  in  your  embrace? 
Or  was  it  that  your  face  was  fair? 

That  haunting  memories  lingering  there 
Your  Lethe  lips  might  quite  efface, 
Did  you  thrid  poppies  in  your  hair? 

Or  was  there  in  the  scented  air 
Of  lotos  fragrance  just  a  trace? 
Or  was  it  that  your  face  was  fair? 

That  Antony  forgot  despair, 
And  in  your  kiss  forgot  disgrace, 
Did  you  thrid  poppies  in  your  hair? 

Ah,  was  it  that  your  face  was  fair 
That  emperors  loved  your  lips  a  space? 
Or  were  there  poppies  in  your  hair, 
And  deep  oblivion  in  your  face? 


64 


THE  WATCHER'S  STORY 

When  they  had  gone,  a  long,  long  time  she  did  not 
stir  ; 

Her  weary  breathing  throbbing  through  the  room 
was  all  I  heard. 

The  faint  marked  hollow  cuddled  close  to  her. 

Where  she  had  held  her  baby,  grew  all  blurred — 

It   was  so   long.      Once   her  thin   hand   wandered 
across  the  shabby  sheet 

As  though  she  had  forgotten — then  her  eyes 

When  she  remembered,  looked  quite  colorless,  yet 
sweet ; 

And  she  turned  from  me,  and  her  arms  crept  circle- 
wise 

About  the  little  hollow  space,  and  so  I   think  she 
fell  asleep. 

It  grew  quite  dusk,  then,  just  before  the  thin  light 
failed, 

The  caged  canary  I  had  brought  ventured  the  lit 
tle  happy  "cheep" ; 

He  always  trilled  as  prelude — and  the  cool  notes 
trailed 

A  little  slippery  song  across  the  silence. 

She  sat  up  in  bed 

Quite  suddenly,  smiling  her  wistful  twisted  way 

I  had  not  hoped  to  see  again.    The  red 

Came  back  into  her  parted  lips,  that  had  so  long 
seemed  gray. 


And  in  her  cheeks  a  febrile,  wild-rose  tint 

Blossomed  again — it  seemed  her  eyes  came  from  be 
hind  the  cloud. 

Hers  was  a  Saint's  frail  vision-haunted  face.  The 
print 

Of  Mary  pinned  above  the  bed  showed  no  such  ten 
der  awe.  Then  half  aloud 

But  only  to  herself,  she  said  his  name,  his  fine  for 
bidden  name, 

And  one  hand  loosed  her  hair  so  it  fell  all  about  her 
like  a  cloak 

And  her  soul  found  some  words,  not  gray  with 
shame, 

Like  her  long  prayers  to  God — but  when  she  spoke, 

Her  face  was  filled  with  such  a  miracle  of  light 

It  seemed  the  Saint  had  seen  a  great  God's  angel 
stand 

Close  to  her  humbleness.  And  so  she  died,  that 
night, 

Her  fingers  seeking  for  his  worshipped  hand. 


66 


TWILIGHT  SONG 

A  frail  little  lady  lives  in  our  street 

(On  the  opposite  side,  two  doors  below) 

I  never  have  chanced  to  see  her  face, 

And  her  name  I  do  not  know, 

But  I  know  that  her  spirit  inhabits  the  heights 

Where  the  souls  of  the  angels  go. 

For  a  violin  is  the  voice  of  her  soul, 

And  these  summer  nights  when  the  air  grows  hot 

Through  my  open  windows  I  hear  its  songs 

Whether  I  listen  or  not, 

And  the  songs  are  songs  I  have  heard  in  dreams 

And  only  have  half  forgot. 

A  sorcery  lies  in  the  lady's  hand, 

For  she  can — when  she  wishes  to  play, 

Build  a  shining  path  from  the  stifling  town 

To  the  meadows  and  far  away 

And  some  of  the  songs  are  of  dreams  to  be 

And  some  are  of  yesterday. 

As  she  softly  fingers  her  violin, 

Its  happiness  sings  in  her  ears, 

For  peace  has  a  home  in  the  lady's  heart 

And  the  ceasing  of  pain  and  of  fears. 

Yet  I  think,  though  none  of  the  others  know, 

She  has  passed  through  a  valley  of  tears. 


For  though  the  music  is  filled  with  peace, 

The  peace  that  her  soul  possesses, 

One  dreams  of  a  hungering  mother  touch 

On  a  tousel  of  baby  tresses 

And  a  hand  that  is  bringing  a  song  to  life 

But  longing  for  other  caresses. 

Then,  when  the  music  trembles  out, 

The  silence  that  steals  through  the  gloom 

Seems  like  the  falling  into  dust 

Of  a  fragile  lily  bloom, 

And  the  dusk  becomes  a  holier  place 

For  the  breath  of  that  sweet  perfume. 

A  frail  little  lady  lives  in  our  street 

(On  the  opposite  side,  two  doors  below}. 

I  never  have  chanced  to  see  her  face, 

And  her  name  I  do  not  know, 

But  I  know  that  her  spirit  inhabits  the  heights 

Where  the  souls  of  the  angels  go. 


68 


THE  DEPARTURE 

Paris,  August,  1914 

Last  night  the  sound  of  motors  ceaselessly 

Taking  the  troops  away,  a  desolate  monotony 

Of  leaving  vehicles,  that  lasted  the  night  through 

Now  it  is  morning,  sunlight,  and  we  too 

Must  go  from  Paris.     Down  our  little  street 

Almost  deserted  save  for  some  few  neat 

Busy  Parisians  walking  worriedly, 

Women  mostly,  and  old,  into  the  Champs  Elysee. 

Every  tree 
Is  brown  this  year  from  the  June  snow,  dribbling 

brown  leaves  across 

The  sunny  pavements.     One  is  at  a  loss 
To  recognize  this  still  and  austere  place 
As  Paris.    No  smart  turnout,  no  gay  face 
Not  a  wild  taxi.  Then  one  sees,  nailed  up  against 

a  tree,  a  sign, 

All  the  old  Paris  in  it.     Just  a  line 
Of  people  laughing  recklessly,  their  heads 
Flung  back  in  glad  abandon,  greens  and  reds 
And  yellows  in  it,  a  bright  lithograph 
Catching  a  moment's  wild  half-drunken  laugh 
Flashing  it  in  one's  face,  a  glaring  ruse 
To  hold  the  eyes.    Written  beneath  is  "On  s'  amuse 
Follement  au  Magic  City"  posted  there 
In  that  deserted  splendid  thoroughfare 


It  seems  the  echo  of  a  laugh,   the  laugher  being 

dead 
Quite  horrible  in  the  new  stillness.    We  go  on. 

See  far  ahead 

The  great  crowd  of  the  breadline,  restlessly 
Waiting  for  food.     We  pass  that,  pause  to  see 
Our  sunny  Paris  once  again,  then  plunge  into 
The  anxious  crowd  before  the  Gare  du  Nord.  Get 

through 

Somehow  and  find  our  train,  then  as  we  wait 
Think  of  that  sign  again,  and  how  of  late 
The  laughter  of  that  magic  city,   Paris,  has  been 

stilled, 
Surely  one  once  found  pleasure  madly  there,  and 

one  is  filled 
With  an  old,  superstitious  fear.     Was  it  too  madly 

without  pause, 
The  laughing?    Must  the  Magic  City  too,  bend  to 

old  laws? 

Must  silence  fall  upon  its  gaiety?  The  train 
Is  moving  out.     Our  thoughts  do  not  go  on 
We  have  escaped  the  judgment — we  are  gone. 


70 


IN  A  BOUDOIR 

A   Villanelle  of  Vanities 

Vanities,  ivory  and  lace  and  gold, 
Crystal  boxes,  vermilion  within — 
Jocelyn  the  beauty  is  growing  old. 

Powders  and  pencils  of  tints  untold 
Scents  as  alluring  as  whispered  sin 
Vanities,  ivory  and  lace  and  gold. 

Drops  to  light  fires  in  her  eyes  grown  cold 
Rouge  where  the  curve  of  her  cheek  is  thin — 
Jocelyn  the  beauty  is  growing  old. 

Rose  silk  hangings  in  fold  on  fold 
Lend  their  glamour  to  Jocelyn's  skin — 
Vanities,  ivory  and  lace  and  gold. 

Jocelyn  the  beauty  is  growing  old. 
The  delicate  lines  at  her  eyes  and  chin 
Art  cannot  hide  for  time  grows  bold. 
The  lines  are  the  threads  that  the  Parcae  spin. 


THE  HOME  COMING 

I  did  not  know  how  it  could  be 
But  there  I  walked  unweariedly 
Behind  the  child  who  guided  me. 

The  men  lay  in  strange  heaps  around 
Some  dead  and  some  who  had  not  found 
Such  peace  upon  the  battle  ground. 

There  was  one  boy  who  called  upon 
God  for  a  drink.  I  would  have  gone 
Only  the  strange  child  led  me  on. 

We  left  the  field  and  took  the  road 
No  one  to  hinder  us — I  strode 
As  one  unburdened  of  a  load. 

I  walked  as  one  to  whom  God  gives 

That  ardor  of  the  primitives, 

The  knowledge  that  he  really  lives. 

And  still  we  did  not  speak,  we  two, 
Then  the  child  turned  and  led  me  through 
A  little  gateway  that  I  knew. 

Then  it  was  I  who  ran  ahead, 
Leaving  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
Knowing  how  near  we  were,  I  sped. 


72 


I  never  found  the  path  so  long 

Yet  all  the  way  was  like  a  song 

My  footsteps  beat  out,  firm  and  strong. 

Then  came  the  lighted  window  where 
You  liked  to  sit,  and  you  were  there 
The  lamplight  on  your  sunny  hair. 

You  were  asleep,  I  think.     Your  eyes 
Were   fallen   shut,   night-lily-wise. 
I  paused.     I  could  not  realize 

You  were  so  near.     I  tapped  the  pane. 
You  did  not  hear.     I  knocked  again, 
Louder  this  time, — but  quite  in  vain. 

Then  I  grew  frightened,  for  you  were 

So  very  still  and  would  not  stir. 

I  turned.     'Will  you  not  waken  her?' 

I  asked.     The  strange  child  raised  his  head, 
His  eyes  were  pitiful.     He  said, 
"Did  you  not  know  that  you  are  dead?" 


73 


THE  PRISONER 

In  the  house  of  Hate  that  is  old,  is  prisoned  Love 

that  is  young; 
Willow  and  wind  and  dusk  are  not  more  faint  than 

she, 
And  her  soul  is  great  with  words  unsaid  and  with 

songs  she  has  never  sung, 
And   her   lips   that  may   not  speak  her  heart  sing 

sometimes  wistfully. 

This  is  the  song  of  Love  that  is  young  in  the  house 
of  Hate  that  is  old — 

The  terrible  house  in  the  wood  of  the  gnarled  and 
twisted  trees, 

Beneath  whose  wall  is  a  pool  under  a  scum  of  mold 

That  knows  no  moon's  pale  face,  and  no  sun's  ar 
gosies. 

This  is  the  song  of  love  that  leans  from  the  wall  of 
the  house  of  hate 

As  a  wall-flower  leans  from  a  shadowed  wall  sun- 
thirsty  and  stifled  there, 

That  the  hours  may  pass  more  speedily,  for  each 
seems  bound  with  the  weight 

Of  the  things  that  never  may  be,  and  that  never  were. 


74 


"My  heart  is  like  a  bended  bough — 
Wealth  weary  weighed  with  orchard  blow — 
And  none  may  pluck  of  it  but  thou 
Who  may  not  come — or  know." 

"Will  not  some  wind  unfreight  the  stem — 
The  blossoms  hang  so  Lethe  sweet — 
And  fling  a  fragrant  drift  of  them 
Lightly  across  thy  wayward  feet?" 

But  there  comes  no  wind  to  the  house  of  Hate  for 

the  trees  crowd  jealously; 
No  wind  to  tremble  the  lightest  branch  or  to  make 

the  heaviest  blossom  sway. 
They  must  hang  until  they  wither  and  die  of  their 

own  unseen  maturity, 
And  he  for  whom  the  song  is  sung  may  never  know 

the  way. 


75 


A  NIGHT  THOUGHT  AT  SEA 

Night  and  the  fog,  and  the  foghorn's  bellowings 

Keeping  sleep  off — and  the  old  Titanic  ghost, 

And  ashamed  and  unspoken  questionings; 

What  year  and  what  month  and  most 

What  time?   Night  of  course  like  this, 

Full  of  fog  and  cold,  and  the  engines  thrum 

Repeating  with  metrical  emphasis 

"We  are  safe — we  are  safe."    And  that  to  come! 

Was  there  music,  some  nervous  sensuous  air 

Like  this  that  our  orchestra  plays? 

And  what  was  the  shock  when  it  came,  and  where? 

Was  it  all  quite  sudden,  a  kind  of  daze 

Or  slow  and  unutterably  terrible? 

The  women — they   lived;   but   the   men — what   of 

them? 

Did  they  suffer  anguish  unspeakable? 
Was  it  a  hell  of  restraint  to  stem 
The  tide  of  desire  for  a  chance  to  fight 
To  try  for  their  lives — or  was  it  quick 
And  proud,  as  sacrifice  should  be,  and  slight 
Almost — in  the  greatness  of  things  that  were  crowd 
ing  thick. 


The  waves  dishevelled  hierarchies, 

And  under  the  muffled  stars  and  the  ravelled  lace 

of  foam 

Death — and  the  icy  agonies — 
What  is  that?  Not  the  sea  nor  the  foghorn's  boom 
Far  away — do  you  hear?    A  voice,  "All's  well" 
And  the  fog  is  settling — one  need  not  chafe 
And  turn  and  seem  so  miserable 
We  are  safe  at  least.     We  are  safe. 


77 


AT  A  PLAY 

Too  many  years  beyond  fourteen 
Had  marred  the  brow  of  Juliet; 
Too  often  Romeo  had  been 
Beneath  strange  balconies — and  yet 
There  was  a  tragedy  between 
Their  listless  speeches  of  regret — 
A  tragedy  quite  unforeseen 
By  each  outwearied  marionette — 
That  poor  and  common  tragedy 
Tense  purposes  grown  slack  and  loose, 
Romance  from  whose  wings  every  day 
Has  stripped  their  plumage  heartlessly 
And  golden  words  through  over-use 
Transmuted  into  things  of  clay. 


THE  SANCTUARY 

Outside  the  church  the  rush  of  the  wind, 

Now  chant,  now  shriek,  now  wild  fanfare, 
Beaten  against  the  pictured  glass, 

Swept   in   gusts   by   the   wind,    the   rain 
Quivering  down  in  shadowy  streams, 

Distorting  the  forms  on  each  painted  pane; 
Within,  half  drowned  by  the  voice  of  the  wind, 

The  voice  of  the  priest  in  prayer. 


TWO  MEMORIES 

Memories  are  woven  of  little  things: 

Fragrance  of  Jacqueminot, 
The  wild-bird  song  a  street  girl  sings. 

Blown  flowers  of  love's  young  burgeonings, 

Lost  gardens  swept  with  snow : 
Memories  are  woven  of  little  things. 

Sweet  echoing  voice  on  youth's  brave  wings, 

Notes,  memory-thridded,  low: 
The  wild-bird  song  a  street  girl  sings. 

Frail  white-moth  hands  unsmirched  with  rings, 

Fresh  red  flower  lips  aglow: 
Memories  are  woven  of  little  things. 

The  wild-bird  song  a  street  girl  sings — 
Ah,  close-barred  gate  named  "Long  Ago" ! 

Memories  are  woven  of  little  things, 
Fragrance  of  Jacqueminot. 


So 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE  FORGOTTEN 

Do  you  forget  the  house  that  you  and  I 
Builded  together,  very  small  and  straight, 
And  the  twin  poplars  splendid  quakerly 
With  silvered  leaves — that  sentinel  the  gate. 

The  gray  walls  where  the  starry  clematis 
Curls  like  white  foam  about  the  balconies 
The  tea  things  shining  where  the  firelight  is, 
Have  you  forgotten  all  of  these? 

And  your  two  swans  Oswald  and  Vivian, 
And  "Munch"  the  rabbit  in  the  tall  sweet  grass, 
And  our  old  gardener  you  nicknamed  "Pan" 
With  goodies  for  the  children  when  they  pass, 

And  the  good  law  we  made  that  nothing  new 
Should  creep  into  our  house  among  our  flowers 
Except  sometimes  a  book — but  that  these  too 
Should  oftenest  be  old  and  friends  of  ours. 

Do  you  forget  the  patient  little  house 
That  waits  and  knows  it  never  may  come  true? 
When  you  were  gone  among  the  poplars'  boughs 
There  was  a  sound  of  sorrowing  for  you. 


81 


The  two  swans  drooped  their  white  patrician  throats 
And  even  Munch  forgot  to  gnaw  his  grass, 
And  it  was  with  a  sound  like  broken  notes 
That  those  whom  you  had  dreamed  of  saw  you  pass. 

Why  do  you  wait,  for  you  it  is  not  far, 
And  oh  your  old  dreams  miss  you  very  much? 
Shall  we  not  go  together  where  they  are? 
The  very  gate  is  hungry  for  your  touch. 


62 


MARIE  STUART'S  MIRROR 

Could  I  bring  you  the  gift  I  would, 
From  a  panelled  chamber  in  Holyrood, 
It  would  be  a  mirror  to  suit  your  mood. 
Yes,  the  mirror  of  Marie  Stuart  there, 
A  shadow  and  silver  misted  glass, 
Where  frail  ghosts,  brave  in  satin  and  vair, 
Seem  to  linger  and  laugh  and  pass. 

Then  when  your  glance,  however  fleet, 
Fell  in  that  memory  haunted  space, 
Perhaps  your  pale  cruel  face  might  meet 
Another  cruel  and  worshipped  face 
In  a  dim  kiss  of  sisterhood. 
Could  I  bring  you  the  gift  I  would, 
From  a  panelled  chamber  in  Holyrood. 


ENCHANTMENT 

Enchantress  say  what  sorcery 
Conjures  thy  thought?     So  pale 

Thou  art 
A  filmy  web  of  subtlety 

Lies  on  thy  beauty  as  a  veil. 

Sweet-heart 
Do  you  plot  out  some  Arcady? 

Some  Arcady  of  punished  wrong 

Or  slight  revenged,  which  planned  of,  sings 

Behind 
Thy  curtained  eyes  a  song 

Of  treacheries  and  torturings? 

Oh  blind 
Of  spirit — yet  so  strong! 

Just  let  me  rest  against  thy  knees 
And  let  thy  fingers  stroke  a  while 

My  hair. 

What  while  you  tell  the  mysteries 
Beneath    thy   cool    malicious   smile, 

And  stare 
With  Borgian  eyes  across  the  seas. 


BRAVADO 

She  comes  down  the  gilded,  mirrored  room 

Through  the  crowded  tables'  revelry, 

With   an    indolent   languorous   smile   on    her    face, 

And  the  grace  of  a  wind-swept  fleur  de  lys. 

Her  lips  are  as  red  as  poppies  are 

In  a  poppy  field  where  the  sunlight  lies, 

Her  skin  is  as  white  as  the  moon  on  the  mist, 

There's  a  careless  passion  a-dream  in  her  eyes. 

It  is  New  Year's  eve,  there  is  holly,  wine, 
Crimson  poinsettas,  amber  champagne; 
Confetti  and  serpentine,  flung  through  the  air, 
Drift  down  in  a  little  gossamer  rain. 
She  passes  by  with  her  studied  laugh, 
So  debonair  and  so  cavalier, 

With  the  ghost  of  a  dread  hid  deep  in  her  heart 
For  the  spectre  she's  feting — another  year. 


They  will  go  on — the  things  we  knew, 
Sunset  and  night  and  dawn. 
The  sky  will  change  from  blue  to  deeper  blue, 
The  dandelions  will  blossom  in  the  lawn, 
Your  lilac  bush  will  bloom  again  for  you, 
When  you  are  gone — are  gone. 

The  stars  will  peer  again  down  through  the  pine, 

Your  borders  will  be  gay  with  ismene, 

With   bleeding-hearts   and   painted  columbine, 

And  in  a  tangled  filigree 

The  flowers  will  come  to  your  clematis  vine 

But  not  for  me — for  me. 


86 


ASPECTA  BELLI 

I  have  not  heard  the  fanfare  or  the  shout 
The  starry  glory  of  the  battle  cries, 

But  I  have  seen  the  fear  and  pain  and  doubt 
Steal  ghostlike  to  a  woman's  haunted  eyes 

And,  all  ashamed  and  pitiful,  peer  out. 

I  have  not  seen  the  flash  of  righting  where 
A  tattered  oriflamme  floats  red  with  blood, 

But,  sitting  crumpled  in  Trafalgar  Square 
Grey  with  new  suffering,  ancient  motherhood 

The  poor  unsculptured  statue  of  despair. 

I  have  not  seen  the  proud  and  courtly  side, 
The  kingly  passions,  anger  and  desire, 

But  in  a  street  a  girl  who  walked  beside 
Her  tremulous,  heroic,  boyish  squire 

With  tenderness  too  agonized  for  pride. 

I  know  the  splendid  passions  waken  there 
The  stars  of  war — but  these  I  did  not  meet; 

The  little  people  feel  but  one — despair, 
And  there  is  sorrowing  in  every  street 

And  hunger  and  sad  eyes  are  everywhere. 


THE  DANCING  GIRL  IN  PRISON 

The  beast  that  was  your  passion  stole  in  to  me  at 

dawn, 
When  wine  and  lust  from  fettered  truth  had  loosed 

their  golden  net, 
When   glamour  with   its  dusky  cloak  and   scented 

hair  was  gone, 
And  looking  in  your  face  I  knew  that  bitter  thing 

regret. 

Regret,  as  ever,  came  too  late,  and  with  it  loathing 

came, 
And  that  is  why  I  hid  my  face  with  hands  your 

kisses  struggled  through, 
Then  drew  the  little  knife  and  struck,  mad-blind 

with  fear  and  shame, 
And  fled  across  the  ashen  dawn;  because  at  last  I 

knew. 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 

She  was  a  faded  woman  gowned  in  gray, 
Seeming  as  little  vivid  as  her  gown. 
In  the  dull  background  of  the  busy  town 
It  seemed  she  walked  alone  a  loveless  way. 

But  once  a  careless  word  I  chanced  to  say 
Woke  a  far  dreaming  in  her  eyes'  soft  brown: 
The  past  came  back — the  dreary  mask  was  down, 
And  she  was  very  beautiful  that  day. 

She  had  that  beauty  that  the  sunlight  has 

When  it  falls  softly  on  the  withered  grass, 

Or  some  forgotten,  ancient  tomb, 

Or  that  a  tear  has  on  a  rouge-stained  face, 

Or  that   frail  youth  has  in   dark  death's  embrace, 

Or  red  flowers  in  a  convent  room. 


A  SONG  OF  LADIES'  NAMES 

There  are  words  that  tread  with  a  stately  grace 
Through  the  miry  ways  where  men's  words  meet ; 
With  the  holiness  of  a  saint's  pale  face 
In  the  din  and  glare  of  a  market  street. 

There  are  pitiful  words — the  helpless  ones 
Men  freight  with  hope  in  their  wistful  songs; 
Sad  as  regret  in  the  eyes  of  nuns, 
Fettered  to  earth  with  Time's  great  thongs. 

But,  of  men's  words,  most  fair  are  those 
That  shine  with  the  gleaming  of  windy  flames, 
That  breathe  of  the  scent  of  the  fallen  rose; 
The  fragile  music  of  ladies'  names. 

Elaine  is  a  word  like  a  fallen  cloak 

That  treasures  the  moulding  of  slender  shoulders, 

And  Eloise  like  the  blown  gray  smoke 

From  a  dust  where  passion  smoulders. 

Beatrice  is  a  song's  last  note 

Echoing  faintly,  lingering; 

Thais  the  stain  at  a  pheasant's  throat; 

Blanchefleur  a  fragrance  at  dusk,  in  spring. 


Iseult  and  Deirdre  and  Guenevere 
Whisper  the  splendor  of  vanished  queens; 
Vivian  breathes  of  a  haunted  mere ; 
Circe  of  sorcery's  dim  demesnes. 

Sappho,  Poppea,  and  Melisande, 
And  Helen,  whose  scourge  was  strong  men's  lust- 
The  words  are  winds  from  a  distant  land; 
Red  roses  blossomed  from  beauty's  dust. 


IN  EXPLANATION 

Eileen — The  flower  white  hyacinth 
Is  cursed  with  a  most  alluring  scent, 
And  your  mouth  was  just  the  scarlet  plinth 
Fashioned  for  such  a  monument. 


92 


NINETEEN  HUNDRED  FOURTEEN 

Across  the  pages  of  time  the  words  were  written  at 

last: 
The  creature,  come  from  the  grime  in  the  hidden 

depths  of  the  past, 
Had  struggled  up  through  the  years,  age  climbing 

on  what  dead  ages  had  known 
And  written  at  last  in  blood  and  tears  the  words — 

"Man  has  flown; 
Man  has  aspired  and  bestirred  him,  no  longer  quite 

a  thing  of  the  clay 
From  the  day  when  desire  first  spurred  him — he  has 

worked:  and  he  flies  today." 
Was  it  not  a  thing  to  fulfill,  a  task  to  perform  to 

have  bended 
The  will  of  the  winds  to  his  will?     And  must  the 

record  be  ended 
With  these  words  "Man  flying  has  fought,  as  he 

fought  in  the  days  when  he  crawled. 
Was  all  that  the  generations  taught  a  legend  that 

madmen  scrawled  ? 

And  the  work  that  inspired  them  a  sinning,  a  pre 
lude  for  other  words, 
The  terrible  words  beginning  "Man  winged  himself 

as  the  birds 
And  giving  unto  his  body  wings  gave  wings  to  the 

soul  of  the  beast 
And  stained  his  godliest  purposings  with  the  mire 

of  his  worst  and  his  least?" 


93 


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